Antiseptic fumes choke me as a nurse plucks glass shards from my soles with forceps.
Three hours of cleaning the wound feel like a ritual flaying; each fragment ripped from flesh comes with a spray of blood.
But this pain pales beside the hollow in my chest—the same void that yawned when they snatched my brother's ventilator.
On discharge, I withdraw all cash.
The sanctuary director's eyes glow at my cheque: "Total secrecy," he vows, rubbing hands.
"New identities, and your bother can move in."
I know it's temporary—but I have no choice.
In my brother's ward corridor, a nurse is being torn at by a middle-aged couple.
The woman's nails sink into the nurse's arm: "Move! My son needs this machine!"
I shove her back, only to be hurled to the floor.
Looking up, I see Susan Charles lea
